


Don’t Be Shy

by WatTheCur



Category: The Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Sensory Processing Disorder, Stimming, Tenderness, The Frog brothers are autistic and don’t know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:28:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29493594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatTheCur/pseuds/WatTheCur
Summary: “I can see what you’re doing, you know.”Alan released his knuckle from between his teeth and looked up. Sam was peering, slyly at him, over the top of his workbook. He was tapping his pen on the edge of the paper, and alongside those hooded eyes, it sounded like the tail of a rattlesnake.
Relationships: Sam Emerson/Alan Frog
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Don’t Be Shy

“I can see what you’re doing, you know.”

Alan released his knuckle from between his teeth and looked up. Sam was peering, slyly at him, over the top of his workbook. He was tapping his pen on the edge of the paper, and alongside those hooded eyes, it sounded like the tail of a rattlesnake. 

“What?” Alan croaked, his throat thick from hours of silence. 

“You’re trying to stop yourself from doing those things.” 

Alan gathered himself closer, hugging his knees tight. He thumbed, self-consciously at his wet knuckle.

“Wha-.” He cleared his throat, sharply. “What things?” 

Sam stretched his legs out towards Alan, letting his workbook slide off his lap, onto the bed. He began to fidget with his pen, twisted it between his fingers, as if it would reveal something to him after a certain number of turns. 

“You know, those-” he waved his pen at Alan in vague circles. “Those things you do when you get...I dunno. But you’re trying not to to do them, I can tell.” 

“What do you _mean_?” Alan could feel himself beginning to blush, to his annoyance. He reached up and poked at his cheek, as if he could press out colour. “I dunno what you’re talking about.” 

Sam’s smile faltered. He shifted against the headboard, drawing his knees back up, mimicking Alan’s foetal position. 

“Sorry, I dunno how to explain. You just...I dunno, sometimes you like, do these little movements. I don’t know if you know.” 

Alan did know. It had just fallen into place, then, what Sam was talking about. For as long as he could remember, Alan had been aware of having to manually reset himself, upon feeling too much, or too little. More often than not, something inside him, or on him, or around him, felt off balance. Over the years, he had developed numerous methods of getting balance. Making the right sound, touching the right object, or moving and manipulating himself in just the right way. It was something he had believed everyone had to do, until it hit him that what the other kids on the boardwalk were doing, when they flapped and squealed, were impressions of him and Edgar. 

Funnily enough, it took Alan a while to realise that the little faces, actions and noises that Edgar made, were variations of his own. They were so much harsher and rougher than his, they looked like they hurt too much to help. When he was young and Edgar was younger, Alan had winced at the thudding and scraping of his brother’s knees on the uncarpeted floor, when he would rush around the house on all fours, snarling like one of the big cats on his beloved nature documentaries. Even now, his eyes would water in sympathy when Edgar bit his own hands, or tugged his own hair. What Alan could achieve with squeezes and clicks and swaying, Edgar did with thumps and growls, and fast laps of the store that made him pant with exertion. 

Ever since Sam had first shown up at Frog Comics, he had been the cause of some imbalance, at least for Alan. After he and Edgar had snuck home without a word, the night the Emerson house swelled with blood, they had not expected to encounter Sam again as anything more than a face in the crowd. When Sam blew up to the counter a week later, waving aloft the handwritten bill they had slipped into his mailbox, eyes like blue fire, it had made Alan flap like a hen and chew harder on his gum. 

Now, as Sam was becoming as familiar to him as his favourite movie, he still rocked him off balance. He made his chest ache, his head light, his arms feel loose and empty. And sometimes, he had no choice but to let him see what happened when he felt too much, or too little. 

“I am doing it.” Alan said to Sam, resting his chin on his knee. Sam stopped nervously twirling his pen and frowned at him.

“Huh?” 

“I am doing those things. I guess you just can’t see it.” He saw Sam licking his lips, looking unsure of what to say, so he tried to explain. “Right now I need...I’m feeling a lot, so I’m pressing myself to feel on balance.” 

“Feeling a lot?” Sam looked him over, the creases in his brow softening with worry. Alan hugged himself tighter at the sight. “You’re not upset, are you?” 

“No, not upset. I do do this stuff when I’m upset, sometimes, but I’m not upset. Just...feeling a lot.” He flushed all over again. 

“So, you’re okay?” 

“Mhmm.”

Sam deflated against the headboard, relieved. He reached down and jostled his neglected workbook, then began to fiddle with the pen, again.

“I just don’t want you to feel like you can’t do things like that, in front of me, you know?” 

“I’ll be honest,” Alan scrubbed his bright cheek with his sleeve, “I did think you thought it was funny. People do, think it’s funny.” 

“People are assholes.” Sam’s eyes flicked up to meet Alan’s and his own cheeks coloured, beneath the faint sprinkling of freckles. “Would you hate me if I told you I think it’s cute?” 

Alan drew up his shoulders like a bird in winter, and nestled his face between his knees, to hide his smile. 

“Hate’s a strong word.” He muttered. “There’s no accounting for taste.” 

Sam knocked him out of his ball with a soft nudge of his foot. 

“My taste is fucking impeccable, thank you, Alan.” 

Alan unrolled himself and crawled over to Sam. He seated himself, heavily on his knees. In a moment of initiative that made him warm with pride, he took Sam’s face between his finger tips and kissed him. He tasted like the strawberry ice cream he had for dessert, earlier. 

“Thanks, Woodstock.” He murmured, leaning into Sam’s hand as he wove it into his hair. 

“No problem, Garfield.” Sam whispered back. He squawked when Alan flicked his nose. “Hey! You don’t have the monopoly on being cute, you know.” 

Alan sighed, resting his forehead against Sam’s as his hair was petted.

“It’s not always cute, you know.” Sam hummed at him, quizzically. “Those things I do. When I get stressed out, I don’t think they look too cute.” 

“It’s okay man, I just want you to feel okay with doing it in front of me.” 

“If I get that bad in front of you, I won’t be able to stop, anyway.” 

Sam wound his arms, awkwardly, around Alan’s hunched form. 

“Good, then I’ll know you need me to be there.” 

Alan took Sam’s face again and kissed him, on the lips and on the cheek. He nosed at the spot where his lips had been, as Nanook sometimes did when he gave Sam a lick. Then, he pulled out of Sam’s embrace. 

“Good thing I wasn’t being too cute, earlier, huh? You might never have started your homework.” He plucked Sam’s workbook off the bed and dropped it onto his chest. Sam whined when he scrambled off his lap. 

“Aw, c’mon, don’t you wanna do something else, now? Watch a movie, or something?”

Alan settled back on the end of the bed, tapping his toes on the coverlet. 

“Nope. If your Mom thinks I’m stopping you from doing your homework, she’ll ban me from this house.” 

Sam snorted at him, Alan heard him rustling the book.

“Yeah, right, Man. It’ll be a stern talking to, at worst, and you know it!” 

“One stern talking to, too many, you lazy incubus. Finish your equations.” 

“Well,” Sam huffed, “at least come up here and help me out, that’s what I called you for.” 

“If you were calling for help with your math homework, you’d have called Edgar over here.” Alan smiled at the ceiling. “And you know it.” 

A groan escaped him, when a pair of socked feet landed on his belly. They crossed themselves, comfortably in front of his face. Still, he grinned at the pattern of planets and stars.

“I take it back.” Sam began tapping with his pen, once more. “My taste is horrible.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Song “Don’t Be Shy” by Cat Stevens.


End file.
